


guess you're in london today

by daisysusan



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: First Time, M/M, Porn with Feelings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-06
Updated: 2013-06-06
Packaged: 2017-12-14 04:28:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,947
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/832740
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/daisysusan/pseuds/daisysusan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>this is when the feeling sinks in</i> // the playoffs are over (for Johnny, anyway) and Sam has some feelings</p>
            </blockquote>





	guess you're in london today

**Author's Note:**

  * For [mistfarer (matchstickbox)](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=mistfarer+%28matchstickbox%29).



> For Aria, who humored me when I was bored and gave me the prompt "sam/johnny, consolation prize."
> 
> The title is from Taylor Swift's [Come Back Be Here](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=__uOhjRIkkY), which is actually super tragic and you should definitely not listen to while thinking about Sam and Johnny

After game six, well, Johnny's upset. Maybe more than he should be, because they made the fucking playoffs for the first time in forever and people are saying his name in the same breath as Sidney Crosby and Alex Ovechkin, which— _holy shit_.

But it sucks because for a few minutes there it felt like they might _win_. 

He’s not saying anything, but Sam can read it in his voice and his body and the set of his shoulders. He has the posture of someone who thinks he didn't do as well as he could have and—it's ridiculous. 

He dragged his team into the playoffs and they made the best team in the conference claw like hell to get past them, it was fucking impressive. 

But Sam doesn't really have the words for it; he's said he's proud of Johnny so many times he's afraid the words will lose their meaning. There's—there must be another way to get it across. That Johnny is incredible, has always been, has done things that Sam dreams of doing—literally. 

Which is how Sam ends up straddling Johnny's lap halfway through the first intermission of a Sharks-Kings game, kissing him like his life depends on it. 

They've never done this before, though they've come close—leaning in too close and jerking away at a sudden noise, standing in each other's space—and Sam’s thought about it a lot. But now he can feel Johnny underneath him and Johnny's hand at the back of his neck and Johnny's lips against his and—this is so much easier than words. Less clear, maybe, but it's so easy to kiss Johnny like he's the best thing that's ever happened to Sam.

And Johnny's not letting him up, keeping their mouths sealed together like maybe Sam is just as important to him. It's heady, overwhelming.

Sam doesn't know how he could stop, which makes it a really good thing that Johnny seems to have no objections, at least if the way he has a hand on the small of Sam's back and is dragging him closer is any indication. Sam manages to pull his mouth away from Johnny's, but only because he desperately wants to taste the skin of his neck. To see if it tastes like his mouth or if it's faintly different—more salt and skin and less of the beer Johnny was slowly working his way through.

He's not entirely sure how long they kiss for; until his mouth is buzzing and Johnny's breathing has gone shallow. Pulling away just a bit, he rests his forehead against Johnny's.

"Fuck," Johnny says.

Sam doesn't really have an answer for that.

"Yeah," he says, nodding slightly.

Johnny's lips are red and a little shiny. Sam wants to kiss him again.

Instead of whispering _you're amazing_ against Johnny's mouth, which is what he’s thinking, Sam just kisses him. It's harder, this time, harder and a little dirty. When Johnny sucks Sam's tongue into his mouth, Sam's hips jerk, and Johnny makes a barely audible noise.

It's like a switch flips somewhere in Sam's mind because he's suddenly and inexplicably desperate, one hand buried in Johnny's hair and the other clutching at his shoulder, unwilling—or maybe unable—to stop kissing him. The hand Johnny's had at the small of his back is slipping lower, catching briefly on the waistband of his sweatpants before Johnny's palming his ass and—fuck. Sam's hips jerk again, pressing hard against Johnny's for a delicious few seconds, and then Johnny groans and grinds up against him.

Sam hisses, the pressure unexpected, and bites down on Johnny’s lip. It’s not hard enough to break the skin, barely even enough to leave a mark, but Johnny inhales sharply and his grip on Sam’s ass tightens. Sam makes a noise, low in his throat, and Johnny squirms underneath him like he’s trying to pull him closer, even though they’re already pressed so close that Sam can feel the jut of Johnny’s hipbones. 

“Sam,” Johnny says when they break apart to breathe, the words breathy and rough. “Sam, fuck, Sam, is this—are we—”

It takes a minute for the words to process for Sam, because he’s focused on the spot where Johnny’s neck meets his jaw, and the pulse point below that. He bites at the tendon and Johnny lets out a strangled noise. Eventually, it sinks that Johnny said something, and Sam rests his head against Johnny’s shoulder to try and find the words in his memory. He’s breathing hard and his heart is racing, and he’s hard. He’d been so distracted kissing Johnny he didn’t even notice but he is and—fuck, he wants Johnny’s hand on his dick. 

Johnny’s hand firm against his neck pulls him back to reality, not that reality is all that different from things he’s imagined. “Sam,” he says, his voice rough but mostly steady. “What are we doing?”

Sam’s voice is shakier when he answers. “I—fuck, Johnny, I don’t know.” He can’t make his breathing even out and Johnny’s touching him everywhere and he can’t _focus_. 

He feels Johnny’s lips ghost across his, and then press lightly to his forehead. “I’ve thought about this a lot,” he says, still so close that Sam can feel his breath. 

“Me too,” Sam says, nearly a whisper. “Since—for a long time. I just didn’t think—”

Johnny kisses him, and it’s different from the others. Hard, but with feelings behind it that Sam is scared to try and name. 

“I want,” Johnny starts to say, and Sam doesn’t let him finish the thought, just kisses him again, pressing as close against him as he can and fumbling one hand under his shirt. Johnny’s stomach is flat and muscled, and Sam’s seen it more times than he can count but it’s different when his fingers are splayed across the lines and he can feel Johnny breathing hard. 

He can feel one of Johnny’s hands scrabbling at the waistband of his pants, halfheartedly pushing them down and then detouring to explore his side, his back, one of Johnny’s thumbs eventually ghosting across his nipple and making him jerk.

Sam can’t even parse out what he wants into clear actions he could take. He wants to touch every inch of Johnny’s skin, and he wants to skip past everything and just jerk Johnny off to see what he looks like when he comes. He wants to drag Johnny back to the bedroom and lay him out but he also wants to get off rough and frantic and _right now_. 

Spoiled for choice, Sam finds himself just gripping Johnny’s hips under the band of his sweatpants and letting himself be touched. He closes his eyes and rocks forward against Johnny’s hips—against Johnny’s dick, hard and probably just as insistent as his own—and tries to focus on Johnny’s hands rather than his own desperation. 

Not that Johnny’s completely calm either. He’s nearly panting into Sam’s mouth, and his hands are unsteady against Sam’s back, nearly shaking. Every time Sam rocks into him, his breath catches audibly. He’s falling apart underneath Sam and Sam doesn’t know how to process it, except by pressing their mouths together, almost too sloppy to be kiss. Johnny’s hands have slipped back to his ass and they’re pulling him closer. Sam’s knees are pressed into the cushions on the back of the sofa and he thinks his legs might start cramping soon, but he can’t bring himself to care when moving would mean losing the press of Johnny’s dick against his. 

“Can I?” Johnny gasps against his ear, and Sam’s nodding before he even thinks about what he might be agreeing to. Fuck, it doesn’t matter, if Johnny wants to do it, he’s game. 

Ten seconds later, when Johnny’s got Sam’s sweatpants and boxers pushed down to the middle of his thighs and his hand wrapped loosely around Sam’s dick, Sam is—well, he’d probably be glad he agreed if he could think about anything but the heat of Johnny’s hand on his dick. As it is, he gasps, tipping his head forward and biting lightly on the meat on Johnny’s shoulder. 

“Fuck, Johnny,” he says, though it’s probably incomprehensible. 

Somehow, he summons the motor control to work his hand into the front of Johnny’s sweatpants and wrap it around his dick. 

That's—it's—Sam's still struggling to process any of this, to find ways to turn what he's feeling into anything more than shaking hands and a desperate need to kiss Johnny. Johnny's hard in his fist, rocking into him and biting down hard on his lip like he wants to be making more noise than he's letting himself.

Sam is, well. Sam is mostly trying to remember how to breathe while Johnny's staring up him with red lips and dark eyes and looking thoroughly ruined. His hand is moving on Johnny's dick, a little frantic and a little shaky, but then Johnny's hand on his isn't steady either. Sam twists his wrist, flicks his thumb across the head of Johnny's dick. "Shit, Sam, don't stop," he hears, hoarse and choked off.

Johnny's hand tightens on his dick, jerking him faster, and Sam's quickly losing the ability to do anything but rock into it and mouth at Johnny's neck. His hand is barely moving, not that it matters from the way Johnny's fucking himself into Sam's fist.

Sam is already shaking when Johnny twists hard on the upstroke again, and then he's coming, saying something that might be Johnny's name and biting hard enough to mark on the skin above his collarbone. He's not really coherent enough to do anything but keep his grip firm and let Johnny fuck up into his fist, which is thankfully enough. It's only a few moments before Johnny's making a soft sound and coming all over Sam's hand and his own shirt.

They stay there for a minute, breathing heavily and Sam managed to compose himself enough to speak.

"We should," he says, his eyes fixed on where Johnny's tugging his swollen lower lip between his teeth. "We should do that again."

Johnny blinks at him slowly, like the words are working through his brain, and then he says, “Fuck yes,” his voice still a little rough.

Everything's starting to go slow and sleepy for Sam, and he mostly wants to press his face into Johnny's shoulder and stay there, but they should probably move, before they fall asleep awkwardly positioned and covered in jizz.

He climbs off the sofa and drags Johnny up by his hands, despite his sleepy noise of protest. "Come on," Sam says. "Shower and bed."

"With you?" Johnny asks hopefully, clearly more than half asleep already.

"Sure," Sam says. "But we're not cuddling if you're covered in your own jizz."

"What if it was your jizz?"

Sam thinks his brain goes completely to static for a minute.

Johnny grins deviously at him. "So when will you be ready for round two?" 

_In about thirty seconds if you keep talking about being covered in my come_ , is the honest answer but Sam doesn't give it. Apparently the thought of more sex is even more enticing to Johnny than sleep. Sam can’t say he disagrees. But he does Johnny toward the bathroom and say, "Wait and see."

In the end, he sucks Johnny off in the shower, and Johnny returns the favor as soon they get out, pushing Sam back onto his bed still dripping wet, but at least they're not actively disgusting anymore, so it's easy to tug Johnny into a sloppy kiss afterward and fall asleep with Johnny's arm around his waist.


End file.
